


Men With Guns

by FoxNonny



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Smut, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Unreality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-30 12:21:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3936577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxNonny/pseuds/FoxNonny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Eggsy is taken prisoner after a mission gone wrong, he doesn't expect anyone to come for him. He certainly doesn't expect his rescuer to be Harry Hart, a man who's been dead for over a year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He's lost count of the days, is how he knows he's fucked.

Last he counted he was at eleven, he thinks, but he doesn't know, and that many days on whatever fucked up shit they've kept him on - _strapped down, IV drip, when he has enough of his head back to take in his surroundings_ \- stretched to years, until everything finally snapped and time didn't matter anymore.

He's starting to lose track of how he got here. Mission gone wrong, that's fucking obvious. _Mission_.

And that's right fucked, there, remembering what he is. _A spy, of all the fucked up things_. A dead-ender from a council estate turned James Bond like some sick Cinderella story.

But he's also not a spy, not Galahad, because they keep asking him and the best way to tell a lie is to believe it in the first place.

_What does Kingsman know about Volki?_

_Who in Kingsman is attached to this project?_

_Who is Arthur?_

He only doesn't know the answer to the last question, but he tells himself he doesn't know anything about anything, forcing his mind to melt down to "I don't know." Nothing else.

 _They should've snatched another agent_ , he thinks, once.

Roxy comes in once or twice, tells him she's here for him, that they've found him and they're going to take him home. He believed it the first time, until those same questions poured from her lips, like one of those godawful amazing English dubs of kung fu movies.

_What does Kingsman know about Volki?_

"What's Kingsman?" he'd said, purely out of habit by that point, and everything collapsed and he knew it was just the drugs and no one had found him and likely no one would.

He can't move his hands or feet anymore. He can't tell if that's the result of being high off his head for however fucking long it's been or being bound up for however fucking long it's been. Every once in a while they adjust the restraints so he can shit and piss into an offered bucket before strapping him down again. If he remembers right, and he hopes he does, he managed to snap a neck and break at least two faces the first time they did this, taking advantage of being released however momentarily to - if not escape - get some satisfaction in royally pissing his captors off before the inevitable bullet in the head. The next time they released him, he only got off a few shots, already weak from whatever shit was being dripped into his veins. And then, he couldn't fight at all, and he remembers being right furious with himself for it before the world stopped mattering.

 _I don't know nothing_ , he tells himself, maybe says aloud, he isn't sure. It's his mantra, and he smiles a little because Roxy's always going on about mantras these days, power of positive thinking. He'd gotten one of her familiar eye rolls for taking the mickey, which she should've known he'd do. _Mantra_.

But he doesn't know Roxy, because he _doesn't know nothing_.

" _You don't know anything,_ " he imagines a posh voice correcting him, just the right mix of exasperation and what he'd always hoped was fondness. But he hasn't heard that voice properly in a year, so what the fuck does he know.

The door opens. He doesn't care.

He thinks he hears swearing, but that could be him. Even while he doesn't know anything, he knows how to curse the air blue, and it helps somewhat.

Then someone's ripping out the IV and undoing his restraints, and it's one of two things, he thinks: either it's pisspot time, which is unlucky seeing as he's got nothing to pass, thanks, or his mind's telling a fuck of a story again.

He thinks he's blinking. He's never sure what he's doing, now. But he sees, is the point, just a little, and he groans because _fuck_.

"You again," he rasps, his voice pebbles on gravel on broken glass. "See, gives it up right off the top, so I know it's about as real as-" he can't think of a comparison, so he covers with a cough. "Anyway, same routine? Big daring rescue, I don't doubt?"

The hands don't stop working the restraints off, and for a moment he thinks this is going to be one of those hallucinations where they don't hear him and he just has to ride it out until they leave.

"Not quite what I was expecting for our reunion," Galahad - _no, I'm fucking Galahad_ \- Harry says. Harry Hart, dead for a year now, and therefore pretty obviously not actually here. He's got what looks like a ski mask obscuring his face in this particular hallucination, but the eyes, the voice... Unmistakable. "By God, what have they got you on? Never mind. I don't suspect you'll believe me, but this is, in fact, a "big daring rescue.""

"Fucking liar, as usual, but it's not your fault," he says nonsensically. "Heard it the last six times. Somewhat stale by now, it is."

The last restraint pops off, and his hands and feet start to hurt. A lot. A very big lot. Which didn't happen the last six times, but he figures something had to change at some point, and it's just very fucking typical that the change is absolute shite.

"Can you walk, Galahad?" Harry asks, voice gentle, like he always sounds when he's here in his head. It hurts more than his hands and feet do, but in a very different way.

"I don't know Galahad," he says out of habit. "I don't know nothing."

"Anything," Harry corrects, because of course he fucking would. Just because he's a hallucinated ghost of mentor past doesn't mean he's ever stopped being a prick. "But good lad. Alright, now."

There are arms sliding under his shoulders and knees, and then he's up, and Lord it hurts. It's far from the first time he's been carried off bridal style in his drug-fucked daydreams, but it's never had the added dimension of agonizing pain.

"I've got you," Harry says, and he's got that gentle tone again. "Come on, Galahad, we're getting out of here."

"Sounds nice," he slurs, and to his massive disappointment he feels himself dropping out of the world again. Of course he is. Right when they're about to get to the good part, actually _leaving_.

"I reckon it's a good thing you're not really here," he says, fighting to keep his eyes open. "I look a fucking sight, eh?"

"I've seen worse," Harry says, then adds wryly, "but I've certainly seen better."

"Sod off."

It seems an appropriate sentiment to end the conversation on, and with only a little regret, he lets the darkness take him under again.

-

" _Nothing yet?_ "

Harry sighs and rubs his temples, the light of his laptop screen aggravating what's already promising to be a migraine of truly enormous proportions. "I occasionally have to check to see if he's even breathing, Merlin. He hasn't so much as moved in thirty hours. You've analyzed the drug by now?"

Merlin's slight frown is the only indication of his concern for Eggsy, but Harry's been friends with the man long enough to recognize how telling it is. " _Some kind of barbiturate, fairly common for interrogation purposes. They probably knew a truth serum wouldn't have worked on a Kingsman agent, and tried for confusion instead, hoping he'd let something slip_."  
_  
They should have picked a different agent_ , Harry thinks.

"He seemed to think he was hallucinating during the extraction," he says aloud. "I'm... concerned, that he might be further confused upon awakening, seeing as- well, seeing as-"

" _Seeing as you've been dead for a while_ ," Merlin finishes dryly.

"Yes, precisely."

Merlin takes a long sip of his tea, looking thoughtful. " _We can run another risk assessment, but I imagine our conclusion will be the same either way. Agent Galahad is safest with you, until we can figure out who we can trust and who we cannot_." He smiles a little. " _Though I believe we can eliminate Lancelot as a potential suspect_."

"Oh?"

" _She's quite angry with me at the moment, for not letting her run off to the Barents Sea on a rescue op to recover Galahad. Her professionalism, of course, never wavers, but I do wonder sometimes if I'll wake up in the middle of the night to find a nest of scorpions in my bed._ "

Harry winces. "She does have rather a piercing stare when she's unhappy."

" _That she does._ " Merlin shifts, looking uncomfortable. " _It's not a comfortable topic, but when should I... well, when should we officially stop looking for Galahad?_ "

Ah yes. Harry closes his eyes. _It's all necessary, no matter who is hurt. Temporary pain is nothing compared to long-term survival_.

"Give it two more days, then declare him missing, presumed dead," Harry says, opening his eyes. "Call off any sham search you have running, and a week from now, if we haven't sorted this mess out, you'll need to send someone to inform his mother. I'd suggest Lancelot for the task. Watch out for scorpions."

" _I always do_ ," Merlin says wearily. " _When Galahad wakes up, contact me. Maybe I can help to alleviate some confusion._ "

"I do hope so," Harry says softly. "Is there anything else, Merlin?"

Merlin shakes his head. " _Nothing else for now. Have a good evening, Arthur._ "

"You as well."

The call terminates, and Harry is left alone with his thoughts and pounding head once more.

Well, not entirely alone.

He gets to his feet and stretches, working out the knots and kinks that seem to settle into his muscles far too easily these days. Harry accounts it to gnawing frustration at being forced out of the field and into bed rest for months, low activity for another few months after that, and then shut away in hiding for his own good. He didn't mind the promotion to "Arthur," had actually almost been relieved to take charge of the agency after all the shit that had gone down during the Valentine fiasco. What he did mind, however, was being cooped up in a safehouse in bloody Shetland of all places. The rugged scenery of Scottish wild beauty was pleasant. The sub-arctic climate and eventual crippling boredom was not.

Rescuing Eggsy had, in fact, been the most exciting thing Harry's done in over a year.

Harry makes his way over to the master bedroom of the house, having elected to put Eggsy in the most comfortable bed until he woke up. As well, there was a chaise lounge in the master bedroom, which Harry's napped on more than a few times since returning with Eggsy, never really feeling comfortable leaving him for extended periods of time.

On entering, Harry has to stifle some small disappointment when he sees that there has been absolutely no change in Eggsy's condition. He's still very much unconscious, face pale and mottled with fading bruises, the faint rise and fall of his chest under the blankets the only sign of life. As Harry draws closer, he notices fine stubble peppering Eggsy's jaw, and thinks with a wry smile of the short beard Eggsy had been sporting when Harry found him. _Not quite your look, I'm afraid_ , he thinks to himself, running the tip of his finger over the rough stubble of Eggsy's slack cheek. He'd told himself that he'd taken care of Eggsy's beard to assess any injuries to his face potentially hidden by hair, but honestly, part of him had just found Bearded Eggsy far too bizarre to contend with.

Even without the beard, the boy still looks much older than Harry remembers. It doesn't feel like a year since their last conversation - it feels like a decade.

But at least now Harry has a chance to explain things, when Eggsy wakes up. If he wakes up.

Harry turns to the low bedside table and picks up a book he's been meaning to finish, intent on getting a little light reading done before inevitably falling asleep on the lounge chair, and when he glances back at Eggsy, the boy's eyes are open, staring directly at him.

Harry is a well-trained agent with many years of experience under his belt, which is the only reason he manages not to jump with a surprised curse at the sight. He can't contain a flinch, however.

"Ah," he says, assuming as well a composed exterior as he can, with his nerves still rattling. "You're awake."

_A tad obvious, Harry, wouldn't you think?_

Eggsy doesn't reply for a long moment, his face unreadable as he examines Harry with the kind of keen awareness only a weathered agent can achieve. _How far you've come, Eggsy Unwin._

"Am I?" Eggsy says eventually. "No offense, but I feel like seeing the dead ain't exactly a sure sign of consciousness."

"Yes, I imagine it's... confusing," Harry says, marveling at how woefully unprepared he is to have this conversation. "Before we get to that, how are you feeling?"

Eggsy grimaces. "Like a load of shit, which is the only convincing argument that reality's makin' for itself right now. Alright, though, at best I'm dead curious how my head's going to fill this in - how am I looking at Harry fucking Hart right now?"

Harry sighs and takes a seat on the edge of the bed, clasping his hands to stop the tremors that have plagued them ever since the day of the church massacre. Never in the field, however. Just when things are slow, and calm. _Of fucking course_.

"You've seen, um, _Kill Bill_ , I take it?" Harry starts.

Eggsy's eyes narrow. "Nah, but I get your gist. You're saying you... what, survived a bullet to the head?" He swallows, jaw clenching. "I saw it, Harry. No matter how fucked in the head I am, I know what I saw. I had to live it on the other side of a fucking camera. And seeing as I've been seeing you a few times over the past couple of what've been some fucked up weeks, forgive me if I ain't quite believing this "on the third day he rose again" shit."

"That's fair," Harry says, nodding. "And I'd encourage you to be suspicious, given what you've been through. So what do you think is happening, then?"

Eggsy turns his head, staring up at the ceiling. "Likely there's a few possibilities, some better than others. Second shittiest first, I'm still in that fucking cave hooked up to whatever they've got dripping into me, and my brain's gone to pudding. Less shitty, I've been rescued, and my brain's gone to pudding anyway, maybe temporarily, maybe not."

"So what's the shittiest scenario, versus the best case?" Harry asks.

Eggsy does something with his face that almost looks like a shoulderless shrug, and Harry can't help but smile a little. However more experienced and mature this man lying before him is, he is still very quintessentially Eggsy.

"Shittiest, I'm dead, and the afterlife is nothing to write home about, no offense," Eggsy says. "Best case, obviously, is..."

Eggsy closes his eyes, but not before Harry catches a telltale sheen across them. When he opens them again, the sheen is gone, forced down by over a year of experience schooling his emotions.

"I've not made up my mind, so I'm splitting the possibilities down the middle," Eggsy continues. "For now, I'm playing it safe and saying you're most likely imaginary, but I might just be out and away from Volki. I'm not saying anything I wouldn't tell them, mind, and I didn't tell them nothing. Anything. They got nothing from me."

"I know," Harry says. "It's why we picked you to investigate them. Your loyalty has always astounded me, Eggsy, and I've always been more than grateful for it."

Eggsy's cheeks go a little pink. "Sure."

Harry stands. "In the morning we'll debrief you with Merlin, but for now I imagine you must be hungry. Let me bring you some supper, and then I do believe a good night's sleep is in order."

"Fuck me, I've been sleeping for- God, do I ever not want to know how long," Eggsy groans, bringing his hands to his face. Harry notes that while Eggy's arms are mobile, his hands clearly aren't, pressing loose and lax against his eyes. _Shit._

Hoping Eggsy doesn't notice this, Harry replies naturally. "Well, a little more sleep won't hurt. Just wait here, I'll bring some soup."

As Harry turns to leave, he hears Eggsy mutter "fuck soup," and he smiles again.

He isn't surprised when he returns a quarter of an hour later to find Eggsy fast asleep, despite what he'd said before. Harry's comforted by the deeper rise and fall of Eggsy's breathing, bordering on the edge of snoring, and already there's more colour in Eggsy's cheeks than had been earlier.

So Harry takes up his book again and retires to the lounge chair, bowl of soup in hand. Tomorrow, he thinks, is already shaping up to be a much better day.


	2. Chapter 2

When Eggsy wakes up... well, he's not entirely sure he's awake.

Too many times recently he's been awake, but then dreaming, but then awake and awake again and then not anything, actually. So he's long since stopped trusting in his conscious mind.

It doesn't help that when he looks over, Harry Hart - _dead, he's dead, though -_ is standing by his bedside, watching him carefully. Eggsy's used to Harry staring at him in that borderline creepy, analytical way. It's just different when it's the ghost of Harry doing the same thing.

"Having yourself a nice long look, guv?" Eggsy croaks slowly.

"I didn't mean to wake you," Harry says. "However, Merlin wants you briefed as soon as possible, and was hoping to patch in about half an hour from now."

"So you did "mean to wake me,"" Eggsy says. "Alright, fair enough, might as well keep this thing rolling. What time do I think it is?"

"It's eight thirty in the morning," says Harry.

Then, like last night, Harry takes a seat on the edge of the bed, and the dip in the mattress and warmth by Eggsy's hip is solid and real but _fuck,_ he can't do this. He's not falling for this again.

"This... is not ideal," Harry says slowly. "Actually, it's very fucked up, is how it is. Given what you've been through for the past two weeks-" he looks away, and the lines around his eyes betray an exhaustion Eggsy doesn't remember seeing in him before. "I feel I'm making things worse. There's nothing I can do to convince you that I'm real, is there? That all this, what's here, is real?"

Eggsy closes his eyes, because... fuck, he can't hear Harry like this. Sounding sorry. It's jangling and wrong in his head, because Harry was always put together and clever and when he wasn't he was brisk and sharp. The only time Eggsy heard him sound anything less than that...

" _What did you do? I had no control._ "

And even then, right to the last, knowing he was going to die, Harry had been every bit the calm collected gentleman. Right until the bullet went through his head.

"I'll talk to Merlin, and then sort what's what," Eggsy says, opening his eyes.

Harry nods. "Alright, then, half an hour. I'll bring you something to eat - likely you'll feel a little off for a few days, so it won't exactly be a fry-up."

"I should change, then," Eggsy mutters, the very idea of moving making his joints shudder. "Shove, Harry, if you don't mind."

Harry does not shove. Instead, he tilts his head like an owl. "Make a fist for me."

"Say what?"

"Raise a hand, any hand, and make a fist. Tight as you can."

Thrown, but feeling a knot of dread building somewhere in his chest, Eggsy raises his hand and clenches it.

Not much happens. His fingers curl, but past that, any dexterity he had is gone.

"What the fuck," Eggsy says, lifting his other hand and repeating the exercise. Like the first, it's too weak to close into a fist, let alone do much else.

Well aware that it's a very bad idea, and ignoring Harry completely as he tries to caution him against it, Eggsy scrambles up and swings his legs out from under the covers, intent on getting to his feet.

He gets his feet under him, stands, and immediately collapses.

Harry catches him before he breaks any bones on the plush carpet, helping him back into bed even as Eggsy chokes out every curse he can think of, everything he's ever heard to shock and offend. Harry, as he'd always been, is not easily shocked or offended.

"The immobility and drug treatment has had... an undesirable effect on your nervous system," Harry says, once Eggsy has sworn himself out. "Hopefully it won't be permanent, but it will take a little time before you regain full mobility."

" _How much fucking time?_ " Eggsy hisses, shaking his hands out, trying to work feeling and movement back into them.

Harry catches his hands, clasping them tight in his own.

"As long as it takes."

His words are very soft, and as much as Eggsy wants to be pissed - with him, the world, the large potential that this is all just another fucked-up hallucination - he finds himself too tired, and... well, too fucking focused on Harry holding his hands like this.

_You don't feel dead,_ he thinks, and it's a dangerous fucking thought, so he shoves it out of his head as fast as he can.

Harry releases him. "I'll bring you some food, and then we'll talk to Merlin."

And then Harry is up, and gone, but despite not having much sensation at all in his hands, Eggsy can still feel the warmth from Harry grasp on his fingers and in his palms. With an odd little shiver, he tucks them close against his chest and lies back, trying to keep his hold on what could be reality and trying very hard not to just throw in and accept that he's probably finally lost it.

-

"So you can see him? Right next to me?"

" _Yes._

Eggsy glances over at Harry, who smiles back. There's a bit of an "I told you so" hiding in the corners of his mouth, which is just so bloody typical.

"Don't fuck with me, Merlin," Eggsy says, returning his attention to the laptop screen. "You're saying Harry's alive? He's been alive this whole time?"

" _That is what I'm saying, yes,_ " Merlin says, his tone as serious as Eggsy's ever heard it.

"Now, does that make you trust me more, or Merlin less?" Harry murmurs.

Eggsy would chalk "mind reading" up as a pretty fucking clear indicator of _not real,_ except that Harry had done it all the time when he was alive.

"Sorry," he mutters to Merlin, crossing his arms.

" _It's alright, we expected this,_ " Merlin says. " _Alright, there's not much more we can do to convince you for now, but we'll work on it. Still, you do need to be debriefed properly._ "

Eggsy frowns. "I ain't saying anything I wouldn't tell them. Call me cautious."

" _Caution is good. Inconvenient, though,_ " Merlin says. " _Can you tell us what the_ y _were asking you?"_

That, Eggsy reasons, is safe enough. If he's still locked up with Volki and having a massive hallucination, repeating their questions back to them won't give them anything new.

"They asked who else involved with the Volki op," Eggsy says slowly, "and what Kingsman knows about them. And who Arthur is. Just those three questions on repeat."

" _And you didn't tell them anything? You're sure?_ "

"You know me, don't you?" Eggsy says. "I don't snitch, not ever."

Harry puts a hand on Eggsy's shoulder, and leaves it there, which causes a mess of emotions to whirl dizzyingly through Eggsy's head. The warmth and weight of it is _so familiar,_ and Eggsy would swear up and down that this is Harry, truly, sitting beside him and breathing.

If he hadn't watched him die. If he didn't know the pain of believing something you want to have happened so much your chest aches, only to wake up and find it's all been a dream. He's lived that half a dozen times in the past few weeks, and he isn't about to let himself fall for it again.

"If Eggsy says he didn't pass anything on, I believe him," Harry says. "It's time we fill him in on what's been going on."

Eggsy frowns. "What d'you mean?"

Merlin sighs, sitting back in his chair, and it's then that Eggsy  notices that he's not speaking from the Kingsman headquarters, but what looks like his own private office. _Fuck, I'm dense today._

" _You were sent to investigate the crime syndicate Volki's activities in Murmansk, when you were taken,_ " Merlin says. " _If you recall, this was a mission of the utmost discretion. Only full Kingsman agents and myself knew where you would be, and what you were doing._ "

"Fat load of good that did," Eggsy says.

" _Which is precisely the problem,_ " Merlin says. " _No one should have known you would be there outside of the very top levels of clearance. Which confirmed a suspicion that Arthur and I have had these past few months._ "

"Arth-?" Harry squeezes Eggsy's shoulder, and he remembers. "Right."

"A lot of missions regarding Volki have gone wrong," Harry says. "You know this firsthand. I need not remind you of the Latvian fiasco?"

Eggsy winces. It hadn't been his op - Roxy had been primary on it. All they had to do was escort a woman with ties to Volki to a safehouse in Sweden, where she could reunite with her family and be whisked off to Denmark to start a new life. Had they succeeded, she was prepared to exchange valuable information regarding the syndicate for aiding in her escape.

They never made it to Sweden. They didn't even get out of Latvia. Roxy took a bullet to the chest trying to protect the woman, but couldn't save her from the Volki sharpshooter in the end.

To honour the woman, Eggsy and Gawaine went to Sweden in Roxy's stead to relocate the woman's family to Denmark, as promised. When they arrived, however, the woman's husband and teenage son had been killed, leaving behind a terrified eight-year-old girl, her daughter. The Volki knew the power of a clear and bloody message.

Merlin had been a nightmare to be around for weeks after, reeling from Kingsman's abysmal failure. Roxy had been no better, a storm cloud of guilt and rage even as she lay recovering in her hospital bed.

Eggsy doesn't like to think about Latvia, but he can't say it hasn't motivated him to destroy Volki once and for all. Which, of course, was exactly the mentality that led to him getting absolutely fucked in the head. _Go fucking figure._

" _There was no way Latvia should have failed_ ," Merlin says, a familiar bitterness colouring his voice. " _It was a simple extraction._ "

"Yeah, but it did," Eggsy says shortly. "And so did fucking Murmansk, didn't it?"

" _Not entirely,_ " Merlin says. " _After Latvia, Arthur and I went over all our dealings with Volki, and realized they've been a step ahead of us every time._ "

"They're good," Eggsy says.

"Too good," Harry says. "And that was their mistake."

" _The only way they could have stayed a step ahead of us is if they had insider knowledge,_ " Merlin says.

Eggsy sits up, his mind buzzing, feeling his quick temper pulling his lips tight against his teeth. "You saying we've got a fucking mole?"

"We'd hoped whoever it was, they wouldn't be... well, one of us," Harry says. "A Kingsman. It was what we were hoping to prove in Murmansk."

Eggsy fights to contain a snarl, and doesn't quite succeed. "So what, I was- I was fuckin' _bait?_ Jesus, Merlin-"

" _Take it as a compliment,_ " Merlin says coolly. " _It was a toss-up between you and Roxy. You've both proven yourselves to be not only extremely competent and self-sufficient, but loyal as well. It was Harry that argued that your loyalty extends to a near fault. We were obviously not exactly hoping for you to be taken, but we wanted the right man in play were it to happen-_ "

"Yeah, well, thanks ever so fucking much for that," Eggsy says. "Good to know if you like a bloke, you put 'em on the front fucking line as a- a fucking experiment-"

"Would you rather we had kept you in the dark?" Harry asks, and _fuck,_ Eggsy hasn't heard that tone in forever. The one that makes him feel like he's eight years old, caught with both hands stuffed in the biscuit jar and crumbs all down his front. "You're a Kingsman, Galahad. We knew we could trust you right into the heart of the lion's den. We respected you enough to bring you in fully - only Merlin and myself have been tracking this so far. Two people, and _you._ So while I am, of course, very sorry for how you've suffered, I'd like you to remember why you're here."

Eggsy feels his cheeks heat up, and though it's nine in the morning and his stomach is barely keeping down whatever fruit yogurt blended ice drink Harry had handed him half an hour ago - straw included - he's very much wishing he had some scotch at hand.

" _We now have a shortlist of suspects,_ " Merlin continues, as if Harry hadn't just reamed Eggsy out like a naughty schoolboy. " _All of them are highly intelligent, incredibly dangerous, and worse... old friends._ "

"So what now for me then?" Eggsy asks dully. "Won't it be a dead giveaway we're onto them if Volki lost me?"

" _Well, that's not exactly how we're presenting things,_ " Merlin says slowly. " _Sorry to inform you, Galahad, but you died two days ago in an explosion at a Volki compound._ "

Eggsy blinks.

"Oh, for God's sake Merlin, you might have phrased that better," Harry says. "He doesn't mean literally, of course. You're very much alive, I promise."

Eggsy's head starts to hurt. "What, about as alive as you are, then?"

Harry makes a sort of " _see what you did?_ " gesture at the screen, and Merlin even looks a little guilty.

" _Apologies. Galahad, you're going to be declared missing in action, presumed dead. No one will be looking for you. Arthur took out everyone at the compound - very luckily they had a small crew - and set off quite a fantastic explosion. We left the charred remains of a white male in his mid-twenties, restrained as you'd been, in your place. For all intents and purposes, you've quite literally gone ghost._ "

A horrible thought strikes Eggsy, then, like a knife in the chest.

"You haven't told mum, have you?" Eggsy asks sharply. "Tell me you didn't tell her I'm dead."

"Not yet," says Harry, sounding tired. "Unfortunately, if we can't sort this out within the week, we will have to-"

"Oh, _Christ,_ " Eggsy says, pressing his face into limp hands. "She's going to lose her head, after everything."

" _It's for her own good,_ " Merlin says. " _Sorry, but you know it is. If anyone wants to confirm that you're dead, they'll go to her first. You can't fake grief like that."_

Eggsy feels the overwhelming urge to slam his head through the nearest wall. Instead, he says, "Someone has to look after her, alright? No dropping some mysterious excuse and a medallion and taking off to leave her alone and all. She's been through the fucking wringer, she needs watching."

" _You know Lancelot will see she's cared for,_ " Merlin says. " _And so will I. Also, your dog, probably._ "

Eggsy grits his teeth. "I'd really like to not be dead sometime soon. What next for us, then?"

" _For you, recovery,_ " Merlin says. " _You're experiencing loss of motor control, as well as some mental confusion-_ "

"I'm not fucking confused," Eggsy snaps. "Not how you're saying it, at any rate. Does this strike no one else but me as bloody convenient? And before you say it, Merlin, I'm warning you I _will_ throw this laptop if you use the word "paranoid.""

" _How does "understandably suspicious but cantankerous as usual" sound?_ "

"Respectfully, sir, fuck off."

"Alright, well, it seems the productive part of the debriefing is concluded," Harry says, leaning in. "Merlin, now that Eggsy's out of the field, you'll need to bring someone else in close to home. We can't have you getting knocked off, now. You know all the passwords."

"Bring Roxy in," Eggsy says instantly. "I know that girl like the back of my own hand, no way she'd sell us out to Volki. She'd gnaw her own arm off first."

" _Agreed, but I need to assess the reaction to your... death proclamation, first,_ " Merlin says. " _And I need a genuine reaction from her for it. I'm not saying she wouldn't sell it, but she'll be in a room of people trained to spot lies. I'll keep you both updated, and I'll call in again after the announcement's been made._ "

"Very good, Merlin," Harry says. "We'll be here. In the middle of nowhere. _Waiting_."

" _He learned the cantankerousness from you, you know,_ " Merlin mutters. " _Try to enjoy your island vacation, sir. I hear it's very beautiful this time of year._ "

"It's six degrees outside, you Scottish bastard."

" _Apparently you can see the Northern Lights up there. Pleasant morning, Arthur._ "

Merlin signs off.

"Northern Lights?" Eggsy asks a moment later, despite himself.

" _Aurora Borealis,_ " says Harry. "It's caused by a combination of the Earth's magnetic field and-"

"Yes, _Professor_ , I know what they are," Eggsy says. "I just mean- well, you said we're in Shetland, yeah? I wouldn't think you'd have 'em this far south."

"Well, it's a little late in the season for them, so it's unlikely we'll see them anyway," Harry says. "But yes, we're just far north enough to view them here, under the right conditions."

Eggsy tries not to feel too disappointed. After all, if this is all in his head, he's sure he can conjure some up for himself if he wants.

"You've never seen them?" Harry asks, reading his expression with the usual uncanny accuracy. "Not in Murmansk, or Latvia?"

Eggsy shakes his head. "It was always cloudy, and when it wasn't cloudy, it was smogged up with light pollution and factory smoke and all. Why, you?"

"Oh, more than once," Harry says, locking his hands around his knee and sitting back. He's pulled a chair up beside Eggsy's bed, the laptop on a small stand set between them, two mugs of steaming tea on the bedside table behind them. "Denmark was my favourite, though Canada was nice. Iceland had the best ones visually, but with the added complication of an overly enamored head of state wanting to consummate our wild romance."

Eggsy coughed out a laugh. "And you turned 'er down? A romantic shag beneath the lights, and all? Poor bird."

"The "poor bird" you're referring to was seventy nine," Harry says, with a wry twist of his mouth. "It was a honeypot mission, back when I was of a suitable... demographic, for such things. I felt too sorry for her to go through with it, and spent the time telling her what a lovely woman she was instead."

Eggsy snorts. "Reckon she would've preferred the shag."

"Well, her short term memory wasn't very good, so I may have convinced her that we did exactly that the next morning," Harry says. "Tea?"

"Fuck, please," Eggsy says, reaching for his cup. He stops. "Ah, fuck me. I'm going to need a sippy cup and a straw for liquids for now, won't I?"

"Nonsense," Harry says briskly. "One does not sip good tea from a sippy cup."

"One does if their " _motor control_ " has bottled off," Eggsy mutters.

Wordlessly, Harry reaches back and picks up Eggsy's cup, offering it to him. "Hold out your hand."

"I told you, I can't-"

"Eggsy, hold out your hand."

There wasn't much Harry couldn't ask him to do when he was like this, back before he died. It was the tone that got Eggsy to join Kingsman, that pushed him to try, that convinced him he was more than just some street lad with no future and a chip on his shoulder.

Eggsy held out his hand.

Carefully, Harry took his hand and wrapped his fingers around the handle of the cup, bending them into shape as Eggsy hissed at the pain in his stiff joints. Finally, Eggsy's hand was curled around the handle, shaking enough to slosh the contents of the cup dangerously close to the edge.

"I'm gonna upend this all over myself, and you're going to have to clean it up on account of my being crippled and all," Eggsy says.

"You won't," Harry says.

He wraps his hand around Eggsy's, taking the weight of the cup for him.

Feeling oddly sideways and warm, like he's coming down with the flu or something - _wouldn't that just make the fucking day_ \- Eggsy brings the cup to his mouth, with Harry's help, and takes a sip of tea.

And proceeds to choke.

"Hot, that," Eggsy says a few moments later, once he's got his breath back.

"Astute observation," Harry says dryly, but he's smiling a little as he helps Eggsy put the cup back down on the table. "Getting you back on your feet is going to take some work, but I have little doubt you'll get there in time."

"Or die trying," says Eggsy.

"Preferably not," says Harry, picking up his own cup of tea and taking a long sip. Clearly either heat has no effect on him, or it does and he's powering through for the sake of showing Eggsy up. Either way Eggsy has to fight the urge to knock the cup out of his smug hands with his floppy ones.

It feels so normal, and for a moment, Eggsy forgets that it's _not._

He sits back, rubbing his limp hands over each other. "For the record... I um-" he swallows hard, trying to find the words and fucking failing. "I do want this to be real, alright? It's not like I'm exactly gunning for you to still be dead."

"I know," Harry says quietly. "I've said it before, this wasn't exactly how I'd planned to reveal myself to you."

Eggsy does a bit of a double take at that, and to his delight, Harry's expression slips into an embarrassed scowl. "Oh, for fuck's sake, Eggsy-"

"Didn't say a word, sir," Eggsy says, trying not very hard to stop grinning. "Didn't say a fucking word. But go on, tell me how you'd planned your um, "grand reveal.""

"I've forgotten how aggravating you can be," Harry mutters. "Incredibly tiresome, at times."

"Nah, you ain't never thought that," Eggsy says easily, settling back against the pillows behind him. "You missed me, didn't you?"

Harry looks down, his scowl softening. "Well, perhaps I did, at that."

God, Eggsy wants this to be real.

"Alright, then, make up for lost time," Eggsy says, his jovial tone only a little forced. "Tell me about your Northern Lights, then. I don't see a home theatre system in here, so you'd better make it good."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Thank you guys so much for the lovely comments, it honestly makes my life a little. This chapter's a little shorter (didn't have much time to write on the weekend), but if I'm lucky I might be able to get the next one up as early as tomorrow. Enjoy!

"I want to try walking."

Harry folds his arms. "Make a fist."

Eggsy scowls. "Fuck fists, mate, it's been two days now and I'm tired of spending my life in bed. I feel like one of those useless grandparents in _Willy Wanker,_ and all."

 " _Willy Wonka?_ "

 "You heard me."

Harry can well understand the restlessness of immobility, having experienced that particular frustration himself on more than one occasion. He's actually quite surprised Eggsy hasn't lashed out at him yet, seeing as Harry has to help him eat and drink and even carries him to the washroom and back when needed. He can see Eggsy gritting his teeth every time, understanding the necessity but hating it all the same. It's natural for him to resent the situation, even more natural to resent the one perpetuating it, even if it is well-meant.

More concerning, in Harry's mind, is the fact that Eggsy hasn't lost his shit at him for disappearing for a year, letting everyone think he was dead. In all the scenarios Harry had dreamt up regarding their reunion, he'd long expected that to be the most likely result - furious anger. Eggsy never did things by halves, and emotional matters were no exceptions.

 But since the conversation with Merlin, Eggsy's never once brought it up. Instead, he acts like it never happened, chatters on and makes good conversation, and never looks Harry in the eye. It's always to one side of his face or another, and sometimes when Harry replies Eggsy just nods like he was expecting that exact response, or should have expected the response, and despite having full discourse Harry always feels that it's terribly one-sided.

 _Like he's talking to himself._ _Or like he thinks he's talking to himself._

And then there are the glances Harry pretends he doesn't see, when he's just moving around the place and minding his own matters, reading or sipping tea or dusting. Eggsy cuts quick looks at Harry when he doesn't think Harry will notice, as if Harry's some mirage that might disappear if stared at head-on.

 _When I carry you, you hear my heart beating, don't you? Don't you hear me breathing? When I touch your hands, what are you thinking? What will it take?_  


These are the questions Harry shoves from his mind, because they simply aren't _fair_. The last Arthur, had he been in this position, would have demanded Eggsy stow his apparent lapse of sanity and do as he's told, or else. And when this didn't work, Eggsy would have been replaced.

Because Harry is Arthur now, he's been forced to consider the possibility that either because of the physical damage or the more pressing mental concerns, Eggsy might not be able to  continue carrying out his duty as Kingsman.

That his career as Galahad might end here, one year in, because he'd been the best one for this job, and he'd paid a price for excellence.

Whether from a place of mentor's pride or personal affection, Harry has balked every time at this line of thought, even though logically he knows it would probably be better for Eggsy in the long run. Safer.

 _Fuck it. I was in a coma for half his training, and shot in the fucking head. No one gave up on me, and I won't give up on him._

"Yoga," Harry says abruptly, aware that he's been silent for a few moments too long. 

Eggsy squints at Harry, raising his eyebrows. "Yoga?"

"You wouldn't believe the restorative properties of a slower, flexibility-based exercise," Harry says. "As well, there are many positions that won't require you to stand, so you can work the muscles in your legs and arms without risking a fall."

"Sounds like some Kama Sutra bullshit," Eggsy says. "And anyway, I think you might've mistaken me for Roxy, thanks. She likes all that stretchy stuff, yeah? I'm more of a... push-ups and lifting irons kind of bloke."

"I wouldn't have taken you for a snob of less "masculine" exercise," Harry says. "From what I've heard, flexibility is an important trait for gymnasts."

"Gymnastics is manly as fuck," Eggsy says. "You seen the arms on those Olympic bastards? They've got biceps the size of Merlin's head."

"And I know for a fact Roxy can throw you over her shoulder and run half a mile fighting multiple adversaries the whole way," Harry says, smiling as Eggsy winces. "Yes, Merlin sent me the video from the Belfast incident. Very entertaining."

"I got knocked out, alright?" Eggsy mutters. 

"You were roofied," Harry says pleasantly. "More, you were roofied with the drug you'd placed in your _mark's_ drink."

"He wouldn't have drunk it if I hadn't."

"Regardless, I believe we're digressing," Harry says. "I only mean to suggest that most exercise, even the - ah, "stretchy" kind, is unisex. And if you'd like to argue the point further, you could always try debating the matter with Roxy. Only so long as I'm allowed to observe her handing your ass to you."

Eggsy makes a face, but pushes himself up. "Yeah, alright then. Anything that gets me out of this fucking bed."

With an approving nod, Harry leans down and loops his arm around Eggsy's back, Eggsy draping his own over Harry's shoulder. Awkwardly, they both work to get Eggsy up and out of bed, with his feet under him.

"I can carry you," Harry says, observing the shaking in Eggsy's legs that threatens an impending collapse.

"Yeah, you've had plenty of chances to prove your manly strength, and all," Eggsy grumbles, taking a step forward. His legs buckle, and he keels sideways, nearly taking Harry down with him as they topple into the bed. " _Bollocks._ "

"Give it time," Harry says, ignoring Eggsy's protests as he scoops him up and into his arms. "I know patience isn't _exactly_ your strong suit, but there's no point adding a broken ankle to the list of things we need to fix."

"Fuck me," Eggsy groans, letting his head fall back dramatically as Harry carries him into the living room. This close, Harry can't help but notice that Eggsy's beard is starting to grow back. _Fuck, that's going to bother me._ "This yoga shit had better fucking work, Harry."

It's almost normal, the way Eggsy says his name. Almost like he's starting to believe it.

But Harry can feel the tension in his body, and it's not just from humiliation at being carried around. It's the tension of a man expecting to have whatever's holding him up drop out from under him at any moment.

"Well, at the very least, it can't hurt," Harry murmurs.

-

" _...and I've just sent you the recording of today's round table session so you can analyze the reactions. I'm running the video through some of my AI detecting software - it should be able to pick out false emotion._ "

"Or if the mole's actually a robot," Eggsy says.

" _Don't joke about that kind of thing, it happens more often than you'd think,_ " Merlin says sternly. " _God, Arthur, you remember that one time-?_ "

"With the Archbishop," Harry says, kneading his temples. "Good God, I'd almost forgotten."

"Alright, that is definitely going to need explaining later," Eggsy says. "How's Ro- Lancelot holding up?"

" _She's very adamantly convinced that you're still alive, so she hasn't quite fallen to pieces yet,_ " Merlin says. " _And knowing her, if she did, none of us would see it. No, Galahad, I'm still considering what you said,_ " Merlin says, holding up a hand as Eggsy leans forward to speak. " _I think you're right. We just need to figure out how best to bring her in. Too much information makes her a target._ "

"Being kept in the dark didn't help me none," Eggsy says.

" _Like I said, I'm considering it,_ " Merlin says. " _Good evening, gentlemen. I'll keep you informed._ "

The video chat closes, and Harry's laptop _pings_ a moment later with the arrival of a new document.

"And now to spend hours staring at a room full of professional liars to see which is lying most obviously," Harry says glumly. "Do you need anything, Eggsy?"

Eggsy frowns. "Not really, save I'd like to know why you keep staring at my face."

Harry blinks. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Throughout the entire video call, and hell, even during the godawful yoga session - during which Eggsy was forcibly reminded of all the ways his body could bend, and potentially shouldn't, as Harry looked ridiculously graceful leading him through the moves - Eggsy has noticed Harry tossing little frowns his way. Not the way he glances at him when he thinks Eggsy isn't looking - like he's a little sad, or annoyed, Eggsy can't really tell and he doesn't want to know. No, this is less of an emotionally deep and twisty kind of look, and more of an "I don't care if you've been training all afternoon, there's no way a gentleman would have gotten their shirt that wrinkled in such a short amount of time" kind of look.

Eggsy doesn't want to admit it, but he's missed that, a little. In the short time he'd had with Harry before he died, he'd learned all kinds of ways to exasperate that fussy side of him until he looked ready to throw a very gentlemanly tantrum.

It figures his mind would conjure it up again, making him remember all the little things that got ripped away before he'd even had a chance to get used to them. So much of his relationship with Harry was lost in that cloudy murk of " _potential_ ," the things that could have been.

Despite how hard he's trying, he knows when this is over, he's going to be right back where he started a year ago, screaming at the wrong end of a video, too far away and useless to do anything to stop Harry from dying. Will it hurt less, now, when his time with Harry is up? Or more, after getting used to having him as part of his increasingly fucked-up life again?

"I mean it, Harry," Eggsy says. "What, is my posture wrong, or something? Shirt? Have I got something on my face?"

Harry looks away, tapping his fingers against the arms of his chair.

" _Is_ there something on my face?" Eggsy asks again, a little uneasily.

Harry sighs. "It's honestly nothing, Eggsy. It's just- alright, it's the beard."

Eggsy blinks. "The what now?"

"You've got a bit of..." Harry motions at his own chin, looking very caught-out and embarrassed. Eggsy is delighted. "It doesn't bother you?"

Eggsy snorts. "Harry, I can barely move my hands and I walk like a fucking Raggedy Ann doll, a bit of rough isn't really my biggest problem right now."

"Of course not," Harry says, shutting his laptop closed and getting to his feet. "Well, if you're alright for now, then, I'm going to go analyze this video. Call me if you need anything."

Eggsy waits until Harry is almost at the door, debating. He's a professional, he's a man with a job and Harry - in this reality, at least - is his boss again. Things are fucked enough as it is.

But every time Harry touches him, it's a disastrous mix of hope and fear that almost feels like being drunk off his head. Hope, because Harry is warm and breathing and alive, even _smells_ the way he used to, which Eggsy thinks is a bit creepy of him to remember. Fear, because he could disappear at any time. Eggsy could wake up at any moment.

_No consequences if it's not real, though,_ he reasons.

"Yo, Harry," he says, catching Harry's attention before he slips out of the room. "Look, if it's bothering you so much, do me a favour and take care of it, then."

Harry looks a little astonished. "Pardon?"

"The beard," Eggsy says, waving at his face. "I know you shaved off the scruff I'd been sporting when you found me, and while I think your war on facial hair is a bit freakish, I'd like to give you the chance to do this right up and honest instead of me waking up at three in the morning with you standing over me holding a straight razor. Not sure my heart's strong enough for that, yet. Sir."

Harry just stares at him, and for a moment, Eggsy feels like he might have just said something incredibly stupid. _Wouldn't be the first time. Or the hundredth._

"Thank God," Harry says eventually, putting his laptop aside. "I thought you'd never ask."

About three minutes later, Eggsy is sitting in the master washroom with shaving cream slathered over his cheeks and chin, being menaced by a man with a sharp blade and a mission.

"I was kind of kidding about the straight razor," Eggsy says, trying very hard not to sound as nervous as he feels.

"Nonsense, you'll never get a proper shave with that disposable shit," Harry says briskly. "Now hold still and don't say a word."

"Christ," Eggsy mutters, ignoring the glare Harry shoots at him. "Alright, shutting up now, do your worst."

Despite having the eyes of a madman, Harry is very gentle as he starts to scrape the stubble from Eggsy's face, carefully guiding his chin this way and that to get the best angle. Staring up at Harry as he does this is decidedly awkward, so

Eggsy closes his eyes, leaving his fate in Harry's clearly practiced hands.

And so, his mind wanders back to a thought he had earlier. A dangerous fucking thought, as a lot of his thoughts are these days.

_No consequences if it's not real._

It's a fucked-up way to look at things, to be sure, but... Christ, how would he live his life if consequences didn't exist? What would he do?

Well, much of the same, really. He can't exactly say that consequences were on his mind when he was driving a stolen car backwards through the back alleys of London at high speeds. To this moment, he'd never even considered what kind of things he'd want if it never mattered in the long run.

Harry tilts his chin up, scraping the naked blade up Eggsy's throat, a long line from Adam's apple to jaw that makes Eggsy shiver.

_Yeah,_ he thinks, his head spinning as he tilts his head to expose another part of his neck to Harry's blade. _Fucking dangerous thought, that._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE'S WHERE THE PORN STARTSish. This is a slow-burn fic after all. Enjoy and as always thank everyone so so much for the kind words, it's what made me go hard today to get this chapter out for y'all. I love this fandom!

_Who were you to me?_

Eggsy lies on his back and stares up at the ceiling, too tired to sleep. He finds without the activity of being up and walking and, well, shooting people, whatever his normal routine is, the days and nights blur into a cycle of exhaustion where he's never quite pushed over the edge of sleep, but never feeling quite awake.

It makes him all the more convinced that none of this is real, only... he's stopped caring about that. No, that's not quite right. He's just accepted it, is all. It's been however many days and when he wakes up from his half-sleeps he's still here, and now that he's settled with the notion, he can ride through this for what it is - never fully invested, but letting himself take advantage of what he can while he's trapped in this half-world.

The other dreams never lasted this long, the hallucinations of Roxy coming for him, and of Harry, of being home with his mum and Kingsman all a distant fantasy. But he heard somewhere that things get compressed when you're dreaming, that you can live a hundred years in a minute, and that's all Eggsy can hope for at this point. That maybe he'll get his hundred years here before waking up. A lifetime should be enough to sort this all out, shouldn't it?

 _Who were you to me, Harry? What the fuck was our trajectory?_

Mentor, would be the official term, and it's the one most people have applied to Harry for him. " _Yes, Galahad's got quite a dramatic story - replaced his mentor during the V-Day fiasco, field promotion and all._ " " _Galahad, you'd've made him proud, I swear it. You'd've made your mentor proud._ "

But it wasn't just a mentor and his student, as such. Roxy and her "mentor" are friendly with one another, but they aren't close. Eggsy certainly can't see them huddled up in a Shetland safehouse together, Roxy being nursed back to health by her senior agent. If anything, Roxy's closer to Merlin than she is to anyone else other than Eggsy, and judging by the state of things their relationship is far from the kind where warm banter is passed between them right now, unless Roxy's nads-shrinking glowers could be counted as "warm banter."

Eggsy's had teachers, and mentors, and he's respected them for what they were. But they weren't Harry. Part of him always knew that, but it was never the time to think about it, and then Harry was dead and there was no fucking point.

But here, and now, trapped in his own head, Eggsy has to ask himself why of all of his delusions, this one is the strongest, the hardest to shake.

Eggsy's mum had a few books on dream interpretation, and used to practice on him over Sunday teas before Dean blew into their lives and fucked everything over. It'd been fun, his mum finding far-fetched explanations for dreams of egg salad sandwiches and great big waves, smacking him up the head when he'd taken the mickey. Eggsy's never put any stock in that kind of thing, until now.

 _Basic psychology_ , Eggsy thinks.

He's away from Volki in this dream, and that is a pretty clear read on its own - he doesn't want to be where he likely is, nearly dead and not expecting a rescue. Simple stuff.

But there was no triumphant return to Kingsman headquarters after he "escaped," no grand adventure leading to the takedown of the crime syndicate for another win at the end of the day. No big victory for Eggsy "Galahad" Unwin. If he'd had to put money on what his brain would conjure up under duress as a best case scenario, that'd have been it.

But instead, it's just here, and this, and Harry sleeping in the next room and there in the mornings for breakfast and afternoons for lunches and evenings for dinners. Harry always on the edge of sight or hearing during the day, never too far to shout for, never gone long enough for Eggsy to start to wonder at the absence.

This, according to his fucked up mind, is what he wants. Just to be safe, alone and away from harm, Harry alive and always within reach. This is the fantasy he can't pull himself out of.

 _Who were you to me, Harry? What could we've been to each other?_

-

Harry is not, by any stretch of the imagination, a stupid man.

A secret agent would not have survived as long as Harry has without knowing themselves. You have to be able to see the bullets coming, especially the ones that get you from the inside out.

So he knows when he's missing something, almost immediately, on the sixth day post-rescue. Harry makes tea and fries some eggs and he tries not to obsess too much because he always figures it out, one way or another. He's never been stumped by these kinds of things for long.

He can't quite describe what reach of intuition has him caught up in his thoughts like this. Just that there's something _blindingly obvious_ happening to him that he can't account for - more, like something he's always known is just making itself apparent enough for him to come to terms with.

There was, in Harry's childhood home, a print of a renaissance-era painting. Of course, as a toddler, as a child, Harry wouldn't have analyzed it as such, and didn't. When he became old enough to recognize it for what it was, it had already disappeared into the background noise of his day-to-day life.

Second year of private school, they were analyzing art periods including the renaissance-era, and Harry had written a paper on the painting _The Creation of Adam,_ by Michelangelo. It hadn't been the first time he'd heard of it, or the first time he'd seen it - it was just one of those pieces of art that everybody knew of, one way or another. One might not know the name, or know the name but not the picture, but to see it would invoke the immediate response of "Oh, that's _that_ one."

So Harry was a little surprised and a bit unsettled when he returned home for Christmas holidays and realized that that same print he'd been seeing his whole life was the same painting he'd just completed a ten-page paper on. _Oh, that's_ that _one._

It took distance to gain perspective, and context, to what he'd been looking at for so long. That's the feeling that's been creeping up on Harry for days now, only with an added edge of danger. Like if he doesn't figure out what he's seeing, here, it could fuck everything over irreparably.

Harry nudges the door of Eggsy's bedroom open, drink and breakfast plate in hand. He never likes waking him - the shadows under Eggsy's eyes speak all too clearly to his lack of sleep. There's not much Harry can do about it, short of drugging him. Usually Eggsy's already awake by the time Harry comes in.

This isn't one of those mornings.

Harry walks carefully, grateful for the carpet as he pads over to Eggsy's bedside. It's always a little odd, seeing him like this. Odd to think that he knows which side of the bed Eggsy sleeps on, how when he's dozing he lies on his back with his arms crossed, looking huddled and defensive. But when he's out, really out, he curls into a ball on bad nights, or sprawls out on good ones, one arm slung easily across his chest and the other curled up close to his face.

Last night, it seems, was a good night. Eggsy breathes soft and slow, his brow smooth, the lines of an agent's hard life not yet settled into his skin.

And Harry gets that feeling again, like he's staring at that old painting with new context and still not understanding, not realizing what it is he's looking at.

When he's in the field and everything's gone tits-up and there's no plan to fall back on, Harry has survived by following his instincts.

In the face of this confusion, he does exactly that.

Harry puts the tea and breakfast to one side and takes a seat next to Eggsy on the bed, hands clasped tightly.

 _Who are we to each other, now?_

It's not something Harry can put into words, but he knows that at the heart of the complexity that's worrying at his thoughts these days is Eggsy. And maybe it's always been Eggsy.

Context, and distance, and now...

Harry reaches out unconsciously, feeling whatever ground he's on slip and slide with every passing moment as he touches Eggsy's hair, runs his thumb over Eggsy's cheek.

Eggsy shifts, and Harry pulls back. _What the fuck am I doing?_

By the time Eggsy is awake, Harry is standing at a respectful distance, breakfast and tea in hand again.

"Good morning," Harry says calmly. "How was your sleep?"

-

Eggsy lies back in the bath, and ponders one of life's greatest frustrations: the fact that nerve damage makes wanking a monumental task.

Overall things have been improving over the days - he can curl his fingers far enough on his own to touch the tips to his palm, and Harry doesn't have to pick him up and carry him around anymore. Granted, Eggsy still can't get anywhere without a shoulder to lean on, and most of the weight off his feet, but he's walking, or as close as, and that's the main thing.

But his grip is not the strongest, is the main thing, and it all leads up to what feels like a punchline to a sick joke. Eggsy's a lad in his prime, and it's been _weeks_ , and he doesn't care at this point if he's about to give the Volki fuckers a good show back in their little torture cave - this is his world, his hallucination, and fuck if he's going to abstain for their sake.

He eyes the door briefly, frowning. Harry's been good about giving him privacy, despite the fact that Eggsy's needed help getting to the washroom to shit and back. It would just be right up his alley of luck, however, if the new Arthur were to wander in while Eggsy gives himself some much needed alone time.

_Fuck it,_ he thinks, letting his hand drift down, fingers trailing over his chest and stomach. _No reality, no consequences, right?_

He takes hold of himself, gritting his teeth in frustration because he knows his grip isn't getting any tighter than this. He's too wound up to write this off as a lost cause, however, so he starts slowly jacking himself off, his own soft touch teasing more than satisfying. It's good enough for now, though. He does like a little bit of torment before getting himself where he wants to be.

If the handy's not going to be enough, though, he's got to find something in his head to push him over.

He runs through the reel of his past fucks - mostly girls, pretty girls with pretty names and wicked mouths and dirty thoughts, and yeah, the occasional lad thrown in, a shag is a shag and occasionally he likes seeing a posh bloke on their knees for him.

_On your knees, Eggsy._

He shivers, and starts to stroke a little faster. _Fuck it,_ he thinks again, because he knows what he wants.

_Hands behind your back, and no coming until I say. Good boy._

It falls in with his current situation, the torment of his own touch, and soon enough he finds himself hard and hot and squirming a little in the steaming water.

_Such a darling boy... be very good, and I might let you suck me. Would you like that?_

Eggsy's cock twitches a little under his fingers. Yes, he would like that, thanks.

Lips on his neck, a tongue dipping into the hollow of his throat, fingertips tracing over his hipbones and a mouth on his nipple, sucking until Eggsy whimpers.

Actually whimpers.

He stuffs a fist against his teeth, and moves his hand faster, choking back curses because he can't tighten his hand the way he _needs_ to.

_So much to teach you, sweet boy... So much to show you about your own body. So much to learn. I want to know every filthy inch of what makes you moan for me, what makes you scream. I want to make a beautiful mess of you, so wrung out with pleasure that you can barely breathe, and all you can do is beg for more..._

Eggsy runs the tip of his thumb up and over the crown of his cock and arches his back, fighting to hold back his moaning.

_Do you want me to fuck you, darling? Fill you up so all you can feel is me, slowly bring you off as I work into you?_

Eggsy feels a trickle of sweat down the back of his neck, and his breath is coming in short gasps, and _fuck._

_It feels so good, my boy, doesn't it? For me then, Eggsy. Come for me._

His cry of pleasure is thankfully voiceless when it's punched out of him, curling up around his hand and biting down on his fist hard enough to hurt as he comes too hard to think, too hard to breathe, only the whispers of his imagined lover echoing through his mind as he strokes himself through it, dragging every last bit of release from himself before he falls back into the water, gasping and spent and praying to God that Harry isn't within hearing distance.

Praying to God he didn't moan Harry's name at any point, because he really isn't sure. He can't guarantee nothing slipped out.

_Fuck,_ he thinks, once his brain is reassembled to a point where he can process thought again. _Fuck me._

**Author's Note:**

> First fic in progress on AO3! Whoo! Very excited to start contributing to this amazing fandom. I'm also taking fic and one-shot recs at foxnonny.tumblr.com so hmu.


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